


The Luckiest Idiots Alive Right Now

by AquitaineQueen24



Category: Hamilton - Miranda, Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Original Trilogy
Genre: Before they joined the Rebellion and defied the Empire, and so on and so forth - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-12-08
Updated: 2015-12-28
Packaged: 2018-05-05 17:49:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,667
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5384768
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AquitaineQueen24/pseuds/AquitaineQueen24
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Chronicling the life and times of a bastard orphan raised on a desolate planet who is NOT destined to join the Rebellion and save the galaxy, but who is not throwing away his shot at it. </p><p>Plus everyone he dragged along for the ride.</p><p>or</p><p>In which I got bitten by the #Force4Ham bug</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Hamilton I

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A quick change in chapters, since I felt we might need to meet Alexander first! The Schuyler Sisters and Burr can now be found in the next chapter!
> 
> Also:
> 
> In which young Alexander is not satisfied with his current employment.

He doesn’t have to oversee as many slave shipments as other merchants get, there’s that at least, but there’s still too many.

Alexander knows not to take his time, to be efficient in getting to the dock whenever there’s a cargo, to show what a good clerk he is, what a good businessman Thomas Stevens is to have such fast effective young workers, that Stevens Trading Firm is really good to work with, a pleasure doing business with you.

He’s learned for once to keep his mouth shut, say little, tally the stock and sign where he needs to. At least he doesn’t have to smile.

When the cargoes are simply goods he doesn’t look at them so he won’t constantly think _Mom would love that_ or _Oh that looks good_. When the cargo is people he doesn’t let himself look away. He won’t do them the dishonour of ignoring them. He doesn’t just look at their bodies, either, which is what just about everyone else caught up in this business seems to do.

He meets the narrowed eyes of Wookies. The jewel eyes of Twi’leks. The night-black of Sullustans. The eyes of Togruta in a sea of red and white. Races he’s never learned the names of and never will, (if he starts looking for the answers he’ll never stop) and not nearly enough humans among the packed chained masses. Not that he’d feel any better if there _were_ more of his own race, but at least then it’d be fairer. In some sick way.

Life is not fair. All the talk about justice and order and prosperity and yet the Empire isn’t fair either.

He sees all types of genders, though at least the firm Stevens’ works with leaves them _some_ dignity and gives them all jumpsuits to wear. Grey, like the Imperials. He sees all sorts of classes, beggars picked up from the gutter and either forced into irons or glad to accept them so long as they get fed; or people who used to be bigshots on some planet’s government before they ran afoul of the Empire. He sees people on their own, weeping and hugging themselves as they wait for whatever end they get; or somehow still in groups, though not for much longer. He sees people holding each other for maybe the last time, kissing, crying, staying close and saying nothing.

He doesn’t see many old people, and no kids. Stevens doesn’t deal in children, at least not until Alex and Edward grow up and move out and he doesn’t feel guilty any more. _Awesome. Wow._

Some of the people meet his eyes and have the strength left to stare back. Some of them won’t look at anything at all. How many of them have energy left not just to glare but to hate him too?

Probably most of them do. Hate’s a powerful thing.

He signs on the dotted lines and the cargo is off again, bound for his planet’s pits and fields and beds, and Alexander’s left to wend his way back to the office and swear he won’t do this anymore. Not even once more. Right up until the next time Thomas tells him over the dinner table he’ll need to go to the docks tomorrow, another shipment coming in. And he’ll nod, say sure and choke down his meal.

He’s got to get off this planet before the evil of the slave trade gets its claws in him, the evil that can make a kind, fun, life-saving man like Thomas think it’s okay to trade people like Naboo trinkets or Corellian silk. He’s got to find people with whom it’s safe to talk, who can understand him when he says this isn’t the way it should be, who won’t reply _but it is, deal with it or die,_

and he won’t be satisfied until he does.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As Genius Lyrics states: 
> 
> 'While working at the trading firm, one of Hamilton’s responsibilities was to inspect cargoes, which included slaves in addition to other trade goods.
> 
> Slavery in the Caribbean caused higher death rates than in the Colonies due to the harsh conditions in which slaves harvested sugar. Hamilton likely saw the deadliest side of slavery during his teenage years, leading to his strong belief in abolition.'
> 
> So far in my plans for the cast, Alexander’s a scrappy kid from the Rimworlds who’s probably also Force sensitive, Washington is perhaps a Jedi master who survived Order 66, and Lafayette is definitely a Twi'lek, and they are joining the Rebellion in fighting against the EEEVIL Empire.


	2. The Schuyler Sisters and Mr Burr, Sir

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the Schuyler Sisters run into someone rather unwanted during their search for books banned by the Empire, or at least for a mind at 'werk'.

“May I finally take the opportunity to compliment upon your delightful perfume, miss?”

_ Shit. _  Eliza doesn’t dare to freeze. She doesn’t dare look at Peggy who’s no doubt panicking over by the art collection. She certainly doesn’t dare look at  _ **Burr**_ who’s recognized Angelica, despite the street clothes, in the middle of this under-the-radar shop full of banned material. All she dares do is continue to skim through the options on the reader screen provided, as if she’s still interested in nothing but illegal treatises on Jedi, or the marginally less illegal collected speeches of Padme Naberrie.

Burr. Why hadn’t he just outed Angelica altogether by using their last name? What the hell was he even  _doing_  down here?  And just when she’d been thinking how  **lucky**  they all were, to find this place  _and_  find the time to visit as well,  _and_  save up the spare cash to avoid suspicion and-

“I must confess, I had not expected to find a lady like yourself slumming at this level. Possibly searching for someone to provide you with new ideals?”

“Burr, you disgust me.” There’s a of lot bile in her sister’s voice as well as her words. Yes, all right, Angie really could have phrased that better. Still, Burr - he who could never be tied down to anything, yet alone concrete ideals - is in no position to be providing criticism, let alone to Angelica.

Now she actually does dare to turn around and glare at him. So what? He probably knows she and Peggy are here too - the famous fabulous  _Schuyler Sisters_  rarely stray too far from each other - so she might as well go out telling him to screw something disgustingly creative and exotic.

She’s less angry and more confused when she sees Burr is actually  _smiling_. Not a ‘ha gotcha blackmail time’ smile but one that looks pretty honest, not that it means anything. “Ah, you’ve discussed me.”

“Burr, was that an actual joke that just came out of your mouth?” she can’t help saying.

He nods to her, and to Peggy, and then he holds up something – one of the store readers, which you only get when you’ve proved yourself trustworthy and had a thorough background check by the rightfully cautious beings who run this little nook. “I believe you can trust me in this, dear ladies.”

Angelica snorts. “I’ve got nothing to hide. This is the only place where I can find the sections of Tomal Payne’s _Common Sense_ that were censored. So, now we’ve got that out the way, let’s say I’m not completely insane. Why  _should_  we trust you not to rat us out?”

“If I turned you in, I’d be hung out to dry myself.”

Eliza steps closer, despite herself, to look, and sees forbidden words, a summary of sessions in the Old Republic Senate and thinks, through the surprise,  _Why, he’s like us!_

_ Maybe not  _ just _like us, but still…_

Her big sister takes a look at his screen at well, and snorts. “So. You want a revolution.  _Me,_  I want a revelation.”

“Like you’ve said a billion times already.” Wonderful, Peggy’s got her voice back. It breaks the tension just a bit, and while Eliza isn’t ready to turn her back to Angelica and Burr just yet, she’s content to stand and watch them calmly discuss whatever he was reading , doing the other customers in the shop the courtesy of  _not_  looking at their faces, as she’s sure they’re doing for her.

She knows she should hurry up and make her selections soon; Dad was expecting them home in an hour or two and they’d have to change out of their street camouflage and get ready for a dinner with _far_  too many Imperial Military guests. But for now she crosses over to where Peggy’s cycling through classified images, choosing what to purchase, and clasps her sister’s free hand for a heartbeat. She needs the confirmation that they just survived this.

_ We are seriously the luckiest idiots alive right now. _


	3. Hamilton II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which there is a hurricane and Hamilton, in a sense, writes his way out if you look closely enough.
> 
> Also, you don't know how hard it was not to include the Bene Gesserit Litany Against Fear. Spot the not quite Dune reference anyway.

They’ve learned to live with hurricanes in this part of their world. The important buildings are situated high up and away from the coast, the better to avoid flooding, and most are constructed in tried and tested domes to withstand howling winds and rain. There are rules and regulations about what to do, where to go. The information’s drilled into children from a young age, and so the people in the colony can consider themselves experts when it comes to weather that makes offworlders twitchy and nervous.

Then again, learning to live with a problem isn’t the same as solving the problem altogether. Which is why the sirens are blaring much much too late and people are screaming outside as the water rises and offworlders are swarming their ships and lifting off to try and escape even as the wind rattles the shutters and Alexander huddles under his desk and waits for the end.

 _If I get out of this,_ he decides, not making a bargain but stating a fact, _I’m done, I’m finding some other way to live. People should have something better to say about me than ‘he kept books, managed a firm for five months, and processed slaves.’_

He doesn’t think he will get out of this, though. Stevenson built his firm too close to the coast, and the building might be good quality but this is surely the mother of all hurricanes that ever brewed on this planet.

It’s not that he’s gone beyond terror and vomiting, it’s just that he’s no longer afraid. _What have I to fear? Let the earth rend, let the planets forsake their course—let the sun be extinguished, and the heavens burst asunder – in the end, what is there to dread?_

He wanted to die when he saw the sheets being pulled over what used to be his mother, ready to follow her ever since –

\- which makes it sound like he still _wants_ to die when he doesn’t now, he really doesn’t, and anyway he can think of better ways to go out than getting flattened or crushed or drowned with nothing to show for his life except further enabling of the slave trade and a handful of unpublished works. But he’s imagined this moment so often he can really only feel relief now, he can stop being prepared and accept what’s caught up to him at last.

He thinks of Mother, not of when he last saw her with her eyes sunken in and her mouth open in death but the moments of her life which hurt so much to remember. He thinks of her wheeling and dealing with customers, fast-talking and making bargains, in her element. He remembers how they’d all gotten completely wrecked on cheap spice the day her divorce from Lavien was finalised. He thinks of her reading things he’d written that he can’t even remember now, saying they deserve to be published and widely read.

Her arms around him, holding him for the last time as he vomited and she died without him noticing.

It still hurts, and for however long he remains alive it won’t _ever_ stop hurting and he will _never_ be able to remember even a moment of his mother’s joy and pride without also feeling the pain of her absence, so he can’t think of her now. He gathers up the memories and locks them away in a blink.

The roof shakes. There’s an explosion somewhere not too far off as the wind clearly proves too much for a ship trying to escape and blows it into the ground, or a building.  

If certain religions are right, he’ll be seeing her soon. If other religions are right he definitely won’t be, considering the trade he’s been involved with. If that old legend of the Force is true he won’t be seeing her but he’ll be one with her, his energy and life returning to where it came from, merging with the billions who came before and will come after him.

He likes the idea of that. He arranges himself around this idea, around his acceptance and readiness as the wind tears and the walls creak and the water comes in. _I am not afraid. There’s a million things I haven’t done that I wanted to do, but I’m ready._

He thinks of things he could say about the biggest hurricane to happen on the planet ever, how to describe what he can see and hear and imagine going on outside. Perhaps he’d put it in a letter to his father. Perhaps his father might even read it.

More screams and cracks and howls.

He tries to describe it all in a letter he’ll never write, in his brain. He imagines holding the stylus, planning out paragraphs, willingly going into the daze of inspiration he'll never wake from this time. A total dissolution of nature taking place, he thinks, fiery meteors of wrecked ships flying about in the air, the glare of almost perpetual lightning, the crash of falling houses, the shrieks of people

the roof is gone and the wind and rain smash into the building but somehow not into him as he struggles for the right words, he's thinking so hard

_Did you know father? In the eye of a hurricane there is quiet for just a moment, a yellow sky_

* * *

 

Alexander is surprised when he wakes up from his daze, as he usually is. More surprised still that he wakes up at all, floating on his back in the very calm harbour, wreckage and bits of everything (and so many bodies floating face down) everywhere. He blinks up into the hurricane’s eye as the storm leaves him behind and alive. The sky’s calm enough that he can see some old familiar stars.

In a minute he’ll gather the strength to swim back to shore (because somehow, despite having been ripped out of the firm building and dumped into the sea, nothing hurts or seems to be hurt) and find some shelter for when the rest of the storm catches up. He’ll find words to deal with the horror when that storm passes on as well, and they’re free to pick up what’s left.

But first he closes his eyes and lets the words go, becomes colder and a lot weaker and nearly sinks beneath, how easy it would be to just swim down - but there are stars above to reach for and he doesn’t want to die, not yet. Not yet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 'What have I to fear? Let the earth rend, let the planets forsake their course—let the sun be extinguished, and the heavens burst asunder – in the end, what is there to dread?' and 'A total dissolution of nature taking place, fiery meteors of wrecked ships flying about in the air, the glare of almost perpetual lightning, the crash of falling houses, the shrieks of people' are paraphrased from the letter Hamilton wrote to his father about the disaster of the hurricane that wrecked Christiansted; which, in turn, gained people's interest and bought Hamilton a way off the island.
> 
> A Washington chapter next, hopefully!


	4. Wash(ington)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Glimpses of a future general's courtship, and his burdens and mistakes.

Marta isn’t the first person he sleeps with. Not even the first one he falls in love with. She’s the first to tether him to a planet and kids and an estate and herself, all quite easily. She’s the first person since the war ended who makes him dare to challenge the eyes upon him.

She’s enough that he can make the decision, two months into what passes for a courtship, to tell her the brutal truths, and allow her to argue with him enough that he can let himself give in.

*

“If you’d have me, it’ll probably be dangerous,” he says first of all, as they’re sitting on her semi-private veranda during some of his precious few hours off, while he watches workers processing Mount Vernon's many paddy fields and she tallies up her latest reports.

She looks up from her pads, probably expecting this but still unhappy to have her expectations confirmed. Still, she’s quick to fire back. “If it’s a choice between the Empire and-”

“You.” He leans forward. “It’s _you_ and Jax and Patsy, every time, you know that. But they won’t want me to resign. They want to wring every last bit of use out of their investment.”

Marta sucks on her stylus. “We could push the spin around it. A gallant war hero, finding true love as his reward for all his hard service to the glorious Empire, rescues the poor widow from her sorrow and seclusion-”

“ _Seclusion?”_ he says, thinking of the first time they met, the pool and the masks and the feathers-

Marta’s clearly thinking the same. She hits his arm with the stylus, grins and continues with her spiel. “-becomes a father to her children, starts a new family for himself – not that they’re too big on that, but they’d like the publicity, I’m sure.”

“I highly doubt they’d care.” He looks out at the fields again, trying to make out what the workers are singing. “Maybe they’d be willing to focus a media campaign on one of their new breed of officers. Not a clone.”

“They might for you.”

He thinks the song is about water fowl. He does his best to follow it until she surprises him by squeezing his wrist and saying “Don’t make a fuss, then?”

“I could quietly bow out. Say I’ve had - _done_ enough. I’ve done my duty to what was once the Republic. They can’t argue with that.”

Marta squeezes his wrist again, before returning to her pads and becoming once more the perfect picture of a friendly host and acquaintance, nothing more for now.

“I must return to barracks. Thank you for your kindness and hospitality, Madame Dandridge.”

He’s already composing the letter in his head. He wonders how many of his brothers have done this, how many of them dared to actually submit their own letters, how many were accepted, how many are now faring with few resources and even fewer options.

How many didn’t dare leave, waiting for the Empire to be finished with its tools.

He is _not_ running away.

*

“You should know,” he says second of all, after they’ve moved out onto the balcony, ostensibly to watch the last remnants of the Empire Day parade better. “I probably won’t be able to give you children.” Shit, he’s making it sound like Jax and Patsy aren’t good enough for him. He takes some breaths, trying to get his heart to slow down. “I mean…if you _did_ want any more kids _,_ it won’t be easy. The Kaminoans didn’t want us breeding, when they drew up our genetic map. I’ve heard of some of my brothers trying to start families, but-”

She leans away from him, propping her chin on one hand while she fans herself with the other. Her eyes are supposedly engrossed in the passing floats. “I think I have enough resources that we could overcome that problem. Or try to, anyway. Do you _want_ kids, Wash?”

“I really never thought about it. Didn’t seem as though there’d be much opportunity, with the war.” Then he notices the glint of tears she’s keeping back and the way she blinks, pointedly not looking at him; curses himself for triggering her and taking this long to realise, how did he ever think this could work?

She straightens up, wipes her eyes as if she’s tired. “Well. If we want more children, we’ll deal with that when it comes.”

“Marta, listen to me,” as he takes her wrist and holds it, feeling her pulse against his palm. “I don’t need anything more than you and the kids. Truly. You deserved to know. That’s all.”

Marta looks up at him with the way that always makes him nearly tear up, because _fuck_ he loves her. _“Wash._ We will deal with it when it comes.” And then, louder, “Will you join me inside, Commander Wash?”

They probably make a ridiculous sight, the taller-than-average Clone Commander towering over the tiny plantation owner, and he’s sure he can hear a few pointed sniggers from the ‘new breed’ Imperials as they make their way back into the ballroom. But there are also a fair few smiles from the planters because isn’t it _romantic,_ dear Marta’s found love again (or at least a good lay) and if she had to climb into bed with the Empire she could have done a _lot_ worse.

Even if he _is_ a clone.

The few of his brothers and subordinates who were invited are harder to read at face value. Ajay pointedly doesn’t look at them, Zeb acts like he’s been punched in the gut, Hal winks, Ochi frowns. He’s never made his intentions so blatantly obvious in front of them before; the barracks is going to be on fire when he gets back.   

He tries not to look too conspicuous when he leans down to mutter “I’ve submitted my resignation.”  

*

He focuses on her neck, the hollow of her throat, the sweat trickling down between her breasts. Not her face, not for this next part.

He says, third of all, “The Kaminoans did something else while they were cooking us up. We weren’t designed to live for very long. You know how they speeded up our growth process? It doesn’t stop when we hit maturity.”

He presses his lips, his nose to her neck as she shifts further down against him “It keeps going and going until we’re all used up. Marta, even if nothing unexpected happens at all I’ll still die _decades_ before you. We’d have maybe twenty years together, twenty five at most? And,”

he has to stop for a second because she’s grabbed hold and _squeezed,_

“and, and with my luck I’ll probably be going senile for the latter half. You’d barely be fifty and you’d be tied to an old wreck.”

He and his brothers all hate that more than anything (even more than the horror of what they did/what the old Republic made them _do_ ) the terror of growing older and more decrepit, becoming ancient while their unaltered _normal_ comrades are still in their prime; needing aids to walk and breathe and survive, always assuming the Empire’s willing to foot the bill, already aware it won’t.

And - a recent addition to all that dread - wearing out Marta’s love and affection as he starts to shut down, everything draining away until only duty and guilt are keeping them together. Until she’s simply waiting for him to _die_ already.

He doesn’t say any of that, because what a fucking selfish self-interested thing to even _think._ Instead he says “I don’t want that for you. I don’t want you to have to look after me when my body starts breaking down, or my brain goes on walkabout. I don’t want to leave you a widow for a second time.”

Marta’s fingers tangle in his hair and lift – they don’t pull, there’s a difference and he can tell and it’s important that he can tell – so that he has to lift his eyes to meet hers. “Wash. Dan was twenty years older than me. I knew he might die long before I did. But…not that I didn’t care, I did, but it didn’t stop us. And we had even less time than we planned for.”

 _She_ stops talking for a breath or two now. Even two years on she never says much about Dan, or Dani or Frances, because she loves them too much to even think about them for very long. Especially now.

“Nothing’s certain, Wash,” as she laces her fingers through his free hand and brings them both up to her breast. “Yes, you’ll probably die before me. But _I_ might die before _you_.”

He sinks back, lets her rise up above him, fingers digging into her hip. “Or we might die together in an accident, a year or so from now?”

She leans down to bite his lip. “Or we might fall out of love, go our separate ways.”

 _“Never.”_ He lets go of her hip to clutch the curve of her neck. “Marta, I want, I’ve been such a fool, I want more time and they _took_ it from us, I made such a mess with what I’ve had, such a Force damned mess, _help me.”_

*

Five nights before their wedding day, after he’s gotten away from his troopers toasting their soon to be former Commander’s health, he goes to her drunk enough to tell her the final thing and _fuck_ the eyes that might be watching. At least he meets her in private, so they’re hopefully unlikely to be observed or recorded.

“There were chips,” he says fourth of all, “near the end of the war there was a rumour started. That they’d put bio-chips in our heads for whatever reason. A few of us got suspicious. Had them removed. Most of us. We didn’t. We thought it was some kind of dumb conspiracy.”

He can’t sit still. He paces, hugs himself, sits down and stands up. “When. When the Jedi. I don’t know what you know?”

Marta, sitting with her hands clasped in her lap, dares to speak. “We were told the same as everywhere else, really. That they betrayed the Republic; they were working with the Separatists somehow.”

“Don’t know if that’s the truth. Might have been. I just. I don’t know. I’ll, _we’ll_ never know. But one second I was alone in my head and then I was.”

He sits down again, digging his fingers into his scalp. “It was me and it wasn’t. It was me there, it wasn’t me _here_ ,” grinding his finger into his temple, “but it was too and I’d been ordered, Palpatine was there ordering me, and we obeyed. Like we always did.

They didn’t strike first. Didn’t attack us. They barely fought back. General Bradoc was so _shocked,_ betrayed, it was too easy.  Marta, you _understand_ what I’m telling you?”

“I think so.” Her skirts rustle as she stands up. “Why haven’t we heard about this, though? Why haven’t more of you _told_ people?”

“Because we gave our oath to the Republic, that is now the Empire. Our parent, provider, master. Too hooked on it to get away, and it’s too big. Maybe some of my brothers tried to tell.” Not hard to figure out what happened to them, they can both guess.

She stops by him in the middle of her own pacing. “So why are you telling _me?”_

He raises his head, so his eyes are level with her bodice. “Didn’t want you to find out later. Better you hate me now.”

“Hate, I don’t _hate_ you. Why would you even-”

 _“I could have gotten rid of it.”_ He’s on the floor all of a sudden, when did that happen? “There was a Captain, Rex. He told me about one of our brothers, he found something about the damn chip and got killed for it. He begged me, _begged_ me to get it taken out and I _didn’t_ because I was right and he was wrong and I was a fucking arrogant idiot. I was stupid and I didn’t and Palpatine used me to kill the Jedi. He used us. **_Stars,_** he used us, he used us like good little tools.”

It’s so hard to breathe. Maybe there’s other bio-hardware coming into play and choking him, now that he’s finally revealed it all.

“Dammit, Wash.” It seems that for once Marta has no comforting words, no reassurances, nothing else to say. What can she say? All she can do is sit and let him howl at what they did to him. Him and millions more like him.  

His throat’s almost raw beyond speaking when he can finally ask, “Still want to marry me?”

She waits for his permission before touching his hairline, cupping the nape of his neck. She mutters “shit,” but she pulls him close and doesn’t let go.

*

Clone Commander Wash marries Marta Dandrige/Custis five days later. He wears a blue suit with silver trimmings; never his armour, never again. She wears, among other things, purple silk shoes with enormous spangled buckles. Most of her friends are in attendance. Some of his former troopers and subordinates are also in attendance. Some are conspicuous by their absence. One or two Imperial higher ups deign to grace the proceedings with their presence.

There is, in fact, something of a media storm after all, and the whole thing is recorded live and broadcast on quite a few channels, and then quickly forgotten about.

Wash, now just plain Wash, does not retreat or run away to Mount Vernon. Not exactly.

He’s waiting.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally Wash(ington) was going to be a Jedi, but Kanan in Star Wars: Rebels has already covered the survivor's guilt aspect of Order 66 very well, and I thought the horror of having carried out that order could tie in rather well with the real Washington's mistake that essentially caused the French and Indian War. Plus, considering Wash(ington)'s all but certain later prominence in the Rebellion, it didn't really make sense for him to be a Jedi. 'The last of the Jedi will you be' and all that.
> 
> Plus, I thought it would be fun for another clone trooper to rise up and strike a mighty blow back at the Empire for everything that was done to the clones.
> 
> I really don't know much about the clone ranks (feel free to educate me!) but clone commanders rank fairly high, so Wash(ington) is fairy high up the command chain. Which is going to come in handy later on...
> 
> Martha Washington's first husband, Daniel Parke Custis, was twenty years older than her, and died after only seven years of marriage. Two of her children, Daniel and Frances, died in early childhood when they were three and four, respectively; her other two children, John (Jax) and Martha 'Patsy' survived into adulthood, and will almost certainly show up later in this story. Glimpses, remember.
> 
> Wash(ington)'s blue suit and Marta's purple slippers are in fact what the real pair actually wore when they got married. Apparently the clothes are still displayed at Mount Vernon.


End file.
